Half, or Less, of an Invitation

My first thought: I shouldn’t be here.

My second thought: I don’t belong.

My third thought: but what else can I do?

And still, when I see her, my heart races. It can’t help itself. It just does what it does. And I see her standing there: there in the shadows, with her pink coat on, and wearing those shoes, the ones with the glittery heels and the little daisies on the top. The same ones she’s worn before. Worn when she was still with me. And her hair, softly blonde, piled and clipped up on her head, wound up with a crushed velvet ribbon that I’m next-to sure that I gave her. Once. When she was still with me.

There are lights and sirens. Pretty much all the time. And there the lights from the A and E waiting room spilling out on the courtyard. The glass doors keep opening and closing.

I’m supposed to go through those doors.

I keep hesitating. I keep running through my head that its an intrusion. What right do I have to be here? What makes me think I’m wanted?

And she? She’s such a smooth, sculpted, painted shape. The curve of shoulder as it runs on down her arm, along her hips, down her thigh, calf, ankle. There isn’t a less appropriate time in all the world to be enchanted. And yet I am. I can’t help it. I can’t keep fire from stirring around in my blood. From wishing. From hoping against hope and against logic, and against what’s even best for anyone…

My mind can’t, so my feet have to do this for me. Carry me into that waiting room.

She lifts her head, startled. “Joey?”

“Uh, yuh.”  I take my hands out of my pockets. I put them back in there again. I don’t really know what to do with them.

“How did you…?”

“Nancy heard.”

“Oh. I… thanks for… for coming.”

Her best friend Kathleen is looking over at the two of us. And her expression is anything but welcoming. Public opinion will tell you I deserve that; and I suppose I can’t disagree. I try to keep my eyes from meeting Kathleen’s, I have to keep them somewhere between Sybil’s knees and the floor to do it. “How’s Chris doing?”

“We don’t really know yet.”

“What… happened?”

“Just an accident. Just an accident. He was riding his bike and the driver of the car didn’t see him. It was just an accident.”

“But he stopped?”

“She. Apparently, she was very, very sorry. She just didn’t see him the dark. He didn’t have any lights on or anything… you know Chris…”

I do. I did. I liked Chris. I thought he was immature and ugly, that Sybil had definitely gotten the good genes in the family; but I liked Chirs all the same. He was genuine – I guess that’s what it was; he was – no let’s say ‘is’, it’s not like he’s dead or anything – and he made me laugh. He’d always be making faces at me across the table when I was brought to dinner, especially when his dad started in on the wine and started talking up his profoundly working-class childhood.

I say, “Can I get you something?’

“Coffee. Thanks.”

#

I hate this machine.  I just plain hate this miserable thing. I want to kick a big ugly dent in it, I want to rip it open draw it’s wire-gets out through the jagged hole.

Instead, I press the button again, I try to re-insert my change. This time it takes pity on my – or just gets a good look at my face and sees how tempted I am… - and this time it spits out a paper cup and dumps some powdered milk and coffee before trickling in some boiling water. I hope it’s boiling. There seems to be steam coming off it. It smells like coffee.

I hate coffee.

But it’s not for me, is it?

I hurry back along the polished, hazardous hallways. I seem to be passing so many people. A few of them looking at me.

Arriving back. She’s there, with all her friends. And her family. Her father is there, and her aunt is there – there’s no sign of her mother because she travels so much, and she might be anywhere right now, and might be rushing back even now, trying to meet a flight. For Chris.

Kathleen and Nina flank Sybil. And there’s Simon, who’s sitting to the side. They’re her army. And I can see that I’m the enemy. They have all the facts. I may be turning up with coffee, but it doesn’t mean anybody wants to forgive me.

I stand in front of Sybil.  “Here.”

“Thanks.”

“Milk, no sugar. Right?” I should have asked that earlier.

“Yeah. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Have you…?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Can I stay?”

Does she hesitate? I’m sure she does. I’m sure she’s thinking: you’re not my boyfriend anymore. You don’t see Chris anymore. You never see me. You don’t belong.

I feel so much as if I don’t belong. Cold eyes from the trio. Surprise in the eyes of her father. Her aunt: puzzled.

“If it’s okay…”

“Of course, it is,” though there’s no ‘of course’ in her voice.

I want to put my arms around her. I want to hold her tight, smother her in my courage and comfort. But I can’t. I can’t do that anymore.

#

Too much time has passed. What does it mean? What is this documentary, that I can’t even hear, up on the TV on the wall? Something to do with the beach, and surfing. Swimming? There’s that girl again in the crimson bikini. She’s hot. I’m not supposed to be distracted by the likes of that – but that girl can work that butt, and when her tits jump up and down…

“… Joey?”

“Huh?”

“He’s coming.”

“Chris?”

“The doctor.”

He looks about sixty or seventy. Are his eyes good enough for surgery? Does Chris need to have surgery?

“I’m her father,” he comes forward very quickly, with the aunt, with Sybil on his heels.

“He’s out of surgery. We’ve stopped the bleeding. It’s early, but I think he should make a full recovery.”

Her dad hugs her. Then he hugs her aunt. Kathleen comes up there and holds her up. She’s shaking with the emotion. She drops her head onto Kathleen’s shoulder and just cries out her relief. All I can think about is how it should be my shoulder, my jersey that’s getting wet. My cheek hers is hot against, soaking up my energy, receiving my love and strength. I’m not sure if Katheen is really looking at me now, but if she was, her eyes would be saying: you had your chance, buddy. You more than had your chance.

#

Chris looks all messed up. He’s clotted with white bandages, and with pale blue tubes coming out of his arm, and taped into his nose. Part of his head has been shaved, and there’s a little dot of blood just already seeping through the bandage taped over it. His eyes are open. They’re blue. They seem sort of unfocused. They’re wet around the edges.

I wait my turn.

“Joey… what brings you here?”

“Dick. I heard about you.”

“You didn’t need to…”

“Oh, shut up. I did need to. How do you feel?”

“Like I got squished by a big metal object going fast.”

“I thought they said you were still dazed.”

“Sharp as a whip, thanks.”

“Yeah,” I put one hand down lightly on his arm. I don’t know where all the hurt bits are. I don’t want to hit the wrong spot. “You’ll be okay.”

“I know. Don’t let Sybil freak out.”

“I… don’t know if I…”

“Yeah. But if she talks to you. You know how she…”

“I know.”

This is for my ears only: “It sucks you broke up. Actually, I thought you were the best boyfriend so far. The bar was low. But still.”

Well. I had my chance. I feel like he wants to ask some stuff, and I move a little way away. I don’t know how to answer what he’d ask. And Nina is already there to take my place. She gives me a quick smile that might or might not be sincere. I remember that I’d been speculating that maybe Chris had a thing for her. I silently wish him luck – a bit of sympathy can get you a long way.

#

In the carpark it starts to rain.

I can see her walking. I can never unsee the exact way she walks, the measure of her stride, how graceful and still purposeful it always seems to be. A beeline straight for her car.

I try to sink into the shadows.

She sees me. She gives a quick gesture towards her car.

It’s half, or less, of an invitation. And it’s probably just being made out of politeness. It’s raining after all. I should probably even just shake my head, smile, wave, keep walking. I don’t though, I hurry over, I slide into the front seat.

“Same place?” she asks.

“Yeah. Same place.”

When we’re parked outside, I’m holding my breath. Her face is just so porcelain-beautiful. An actual work of art. I can feel a window closing, I actually feel as if I can see the light changing as it does. So maybe that’s how I find my voice, that’s how I say to her. “You want to come in? I’ll make you a coffee.”

I remember, in that moment, that I threw all the coffee in the flat away when she left.

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work